


Speedball

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [24]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Drug Use, Drugs, Epilepsy, Fit, Fits, Gen, Holding Cell, JME, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Powerballing, Seizure, Seizures, Speedball - Freeform, Speedballing, TW: Drugs, epileptic, fitting, fraternal love, tonic clonic, tonic clonic seizure, tonic-clonic seizure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7580119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock mixes a potentially lethal cocktail just to feel the euphoria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speedball

Even as he took it, Sherlock knew it could have killed him. _Like River Phoenix…_

But then that was the thrill, wasn't it? Mixing. Testing. Trying things out. _Chemistry_. For his craft, for his art. His profession. For his mind the most, though. To quieten it down, to silence the voices, to...shut it off, just for a while. The soporific effects of one drug seemed to mellow his mind while the other made his mind move so quickly, even his seizures couldn't catch up. And then the wonderful feeling was gone as it burst like a balloon blown up too much, and splintered into one hundred different pieces with a flickering of bright lights like fireworks in his eyes. 

 

 

_“Sir? What you lookin’ at?”_

_“The crackheads…”_

_“I know this kid.”_

_“What kid? Nah - it’s just some doss-hole junkie, Sir. Let the street police pick him up.”_

_“No, I recognise him… Can't think where from.”_

_“Isn't he that lanky kid that came in with Mycroft Holmes last month after that massive RTA fire?”_

_“Who?”_

_“That's it - that's who it is, he's the brother. I remember. He asked if you could tell someone was drunk from their teeth.”_

_“Can you?”_

_“No idea. C’mon - help me get him up, we'll take him to the station. Lock him up in the drunk tank.”_

 

 

Sherlock opened his eyes to bright, white lights above his head with the sweaty feeling of washable plastic beneath him. His eyes felt gritty as he blinked and the excruciating pain in his head moved from his temple to the depths of his brain, like a dagger thrust deep into his skull. He swallowed and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple in his throat echoed internally and made his pained head thud. He slowly sat up, and glanced around him. It took five seconds to narrow down the possibilities of where he was to two places, and he settled on the first. 

A holding cell. 

He swallowed again and pushed himself weakly to his feet. He dragged back the sleeve of his shirt and forced his bleary eyes to focus on the time on the face of his watch; eight forty-five am. He ambled toward the cell door and knocked against it with the flattened palm of his left hand. “Hello?” He called out, his voice hoarse and scratchy. He banged again twice. “Hello - um...hello?” After a moment, he heard measured footsteps coming down the corridor and he stood back from the door, peering through the open window at eye-height from a short distance back, wondering who he’d come face to face with. 

“Sherlock Holmes?” 

Sherlock frowned, his brow creasing heavily, and nodded his head. “Yes.” 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” He man tapped his chest. “We’ve met, actually.” 

“Lestrade…” Sherlock nodded. “You handled my Aunt’s road accident.” 

Inspector Lestrade nodded his head. “I did. Sorry again, it wasn’t the nicest of scenes.” he said as he reached to unlock the door. Instead of inviting Sherlock out, though, he stepped in. “You remember anything from last night?” 

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I was high.” 

Lestrade nodded his head again with a slight smile, eyes wide. “As a kite, mate.” 

Sherlock rubbed his temple with his left hand. “Yes, well. I’m not now.” He said, fixing his eyes on Lestrade. “And I’d like to go home.” 

“You’ve got an advocate on their way to pick you up - your brother, Mycroft.” Lestrade explained, standing with his arms folded across his chest. 

“I’m not a child, I don’t need...um, I don’t need an advocate.” Sherlock stumbled over his reply, feeling the all too familiar marching ants sensation in his right arm, starting at the shoulder and gradually pulling down to the tips of his fingers. 

Instead of erupting like it usually did, though, he began to feel the single, most sickening feeling to him - a rising sensation in his stomach that always, always spelled danger. He slowly walked backwards, aware Lestrade was eyeing him with some concern, until he felt the back of his knees collide with the built up bench-cum-bunk. He sat down with a bump. 

“You alright?” Lestrade asked, unfolding his arms and placing both hands on his hips. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock blinked slowly and shook his head, the movement seeming to take a lot of planning and bodily coordination to achieve. “Um...floor.” Sherlock forced the word out from his hard-to-control lips. 

“Floor?” Lestrade crooked his brows. 

Sherlock made a squealed choking sound that seemed to reverberate around the cell. His arms tensed across his chest and his legs kicked out straight and rigid. His back arched and he slid from the bunk to the floor, landing sharply against his right shoulder as he dropped. 

“Jesus Christ!” Lestrade burst forward and dropped to his knees. “Alright, kid...fuck. Can I get some help in here please!?” He yelled out, “Donovan! Richardson!” 

With another throaty cry, Sherlock’s body began to convulse as a tonic-clonic seizure captured every muscle in his body tightly. His hips rocked while his arms jerked back and forth across his chest. His jaw worked tightly, and his head tensed repeatedly to the side, initially hitting the floor before Lestrade cushioned further blows with the palm of his left hand. 

“Cell Four!” he yelled louder. “Sherlock Holmes, in Cell Four. He’s having some kind of fit!” 

“Epilepsy, sir.” Richardson stepped in, “We took the ID bracelet off him when he was booked in last night. It’s at the desk.” 

Donovan jogged in a moment later. “Bloody hell.” 

“Call the paramedics,” Lestrade instructed Richardson. “Donovan, grab something we can put under his head, he’s already hammered it off the concrete twice.” 

Without thinking further, Donovan removed the blazer she was wearing and positioned it beneath Lestrade’s hand. Once it was safely in place, Lestrade pulled back his palm and stayed crouched, watching the convulsions of Sherlock’s body intensify. His mouth was bobbing open and closed, expelling foaming saliva in gag-like exhales. His eyes were open and fixed, but Lestrade could see there was no consciousness behind them. 

“That noise is horrific.” Donovan remarked, cringing as Sherlock’s sloppy breathing continued to rattle from his throat. 

“Mouth full of drool he can’t swallow, it’s going to sound bad.” Lestrade side-eyed her before focusing back on Sherlock. “He’s been doing this now for about five bloody minutes. Isn’t that dangerous or something?” 

“What makes you think I know?” Donovan jerked her head back. “I’m with the police, not the NHS.” 

“Yeah, alright, smart-arse.” Lestrade tutted at her. He turned his head to her, then looked right around at the door as he heard Richardson approaching with following footsteps that he assumed belonged to the emergency response crew. 

“Greg-,” Richardson stepped in, “Paramedics are here.” 

Two large-built men stepped into the room, one carrying a twelve-lead and monitor, the other with a backpack thrown over his right shoulder. 

“Does he have a diagnosis of Epilepsy?” The bigger of the two men asked, putting down the backpack by Sherlock’s feet. 

“Yeah - we booked him last night, he had an ID bracelet with epilepsy written on it apparently.” Lestrade explained. 

“He been seizing for long?” He asked. 

“Five, maybe six minutes now.” Lestrade frowned at him. “That’s bad, isn’t it?” 

The paramedic nodded gravely and looked back to his colleague, “Let’s get lorazepam on board and we’ll take him in.” 

 

 

 

“Did you make a list?” 

Sherlock sighed in a deep breath, and immediately noticed the nasal cannula in situ. He reached up wearily with his right hand and dragged the thin line from his face, slowly blinking his eyes open and into focus. 

Mycroft growled at him. “I asked you a question, Sherlock! Did you make a list.” 

Sherlock swallowed over the dryness in his throat and tasted blood. “No.” 

“Idiot. No wonder Victor took the voluntary tour in Jordan.” Mycroft sighed, muttering the words under his breath. “You could have died, Sherlock.” 

“It was a seizure.” Sherlock hissed. 

“You blood and urine are swimming in heroin and cocaine.” Mycroft snapped at him. “You’re an idiot, Sherlock. Don’t you understand that you can’t get away with things like this yet? How many times do you have to be close to the edge before you finally understand that this cannot happen? You had a stroke, and now you expect me to believe you didn’t think it was a risk to be skirting close to death?” 

“I wasn’t skirting…” Sherlock said, lethargically. 

“You were damn close!” Mycroft warned. “A night in the cells after a bender, followed by a seizure lasting almost ten minutes. You don’t think that’s close to the edge?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. “Don’t tell Mum and Dad.” 

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t?” Mycroft glared at him. 

Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head to the side, looking at his brother with sad blue eyes. “They’ve been through enough.” 

“And you and I haven’t?” Mycroft softened his tone. “Sherlock, this has to stop.” 

Sherlock nodded his head. “I know.” He said, his voice small and broken. 

Mycroft nodded his head, resignedly. “I promise you, we’ll get you help. Rehab, counselling, whatever it takes. I won’t let you do it alone, little brother.”


End file.
